Mulberry Park. Judy DuarteЧитать онлайн книгу.
a preschooler, she used to bring him to the park whenever possible.
He’d loved the outdoors. She had, too.
Yet now the sight of happy children—even two preschoolers squabbling over the same red plastic bucket—triggered a rumble of grief.
She had the urge to bolt before her eyes filled with tears, but that’s what the sunglasses were for. To shield her sadness from the world.
Up ahead, Walter sat at a table, his chess game spread before him. She wondered if he was waiting for a friend.
Perhaps he wouldn’t mind having company for a bit. She certainly couldn’t very well hover near the playground. If she were still a parent, she’d be concerned about a childless woman hanging out by the swings and slides.
She made her way across the lawn, and when she paused beside Walter, her shadow darkened the chessboard.
As the white-haired old man glanced up, recognition dawned on his craggy face, triggering a crinkled grin. “Come by the park to climb trees again today?”
“I’m afraid not.” She pointed to her knee, where a bandage covered another scrape she’d gotten yesterday while retrieving Analisa’s picture.
“Oops. Did that happen the day I saw you?”
“No. The time after that.”
He let out a little chuckle. “So you really are a tree-climber.”
“Not anymore.”
“Too bad. A lot of fellows my age take to bird-watching, which I always figured was a boring hobby. But I didn’t realize they occasionally spotted pretty chicks.”
She offered him the hint of a smile. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“No one in particular.”
“Then do you mind if I sit for a minute or so?”
“Not at all.” He brightened, a spark in his tired gray eyes hinting at the life still in him.
Claire brushed a few leaves aside from the green fiberglass bench, then sat and studied the playground.
A dark-haired girl with pigtails walked along the wooden beam that bordered the sandbox, her arms outstretched for balance while she tottered along, placing one foot in front of the other.
On top of the slide, another girl perched, ready to shove off. The sides of her hair—white blond—were held back with red barrettes.
That could be her, Claire realized, but there had to be hundreds of other possibilities in a city the size of Fairbrook.
Finally, she voiced her question. “I don’t suppose you know a little girl named Analisa?”
“I generally steer clear of the kids, but I do know that one. She comes with her nanny nearly every day. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondered.”
Walter lifted a gnarly, liver-spotted hand and pointed toward the slide. “That’s her. The little blond tyke who just landed in the sand and is now walking toward the swings.”
“Cute kid.”
“Yep.”
Analisa wore a red cotton blouse, denim shorts with a ruffled hem, and white sandals. She appeared to be clean and well-cared for.
Claire watched as the child backed her bottom into the seat of a swing and began to pump her little legs, soaring toward the sky. “What do you know about her?”
“Not much. She used to live with her parents in a foreign country. I forget which one—Guatemala maybe. Anyway, from what I understand, they were missionaries and died. Now she lives with her father’s brother.”
Unkel Sam, Claire realized. A man who worked more often than a lonely, grieving child would like him to.
If Claire had a chance to speak to Analisa’s uncle, she’d tell him to find more time for the girl. To enjoy her while he had a chance to appreciate all he’d been blessed with.
“Why the interest?” Walter asked.
Claire shrugged. “I…uh…found a letter she’d written.”
“To who?”
Did she dare confide in a virtual stranger and tell him she’d entered a pen-pal relationship with a child who thought she was corresponding with God?
You need to go back and see that doctor again, Ron had told her over and over. There’s other medication they can prescribe.
If Claire had been able to take a magic pill to make the overwhelming sadness go away, she would have gladly done so.
People grieve differently, the psychiatrist had told her. Your husband has put the death behind him, but you’re not ready to. And that’s okay.
The doctor had also agreed that married couples ought to support one another, to respect their differences. Instead, Ron had begun to spend more time at the office and less time at home. His absence, along with the emotional distance that separated them even while they were in the same room, pushed her to agree when he finally suggested they divorce.
Claire searched the old man’s face. Something decent flickered in his eyes, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what it was.
“Just between you and me?” she asked.
“I’m good at keeping secrets, especially when I don’t have anyone to tell.”
Sincerity in his tone gave her cause for relief. Sympathy, too. It seemed they had more in common than either would have guessed, and she felt compelled to confide in him. “Analisa wrote a letter to God and placed it in the big mulberry in the center of the park.”
He arched a bushy white brow. “So that’s what you were doing when I spotted you in that tree.”
“Actually, the first letter practically fell in my lap.”
“How many has she written?”
“Two. And yesterday she left me a picture she’d drawn.” Rather, she’d left it for God and Claire had taken it home and placed it on the refrigerator overnight. Now it sat in her car.
Walter didn’t object or accuse Claire of doing anything especially odd, so she added, “I felt sorry for her. She wanted to know if her parents were happy in Heaven. I told her they were, but that they missed her.”
“You believe that?” he asked.
Claire shrugged. “Once upon a time I did.” And she wanted to now, but somehow it was difficult believing that a loving God had taken her son, leaving her to wallow in grief and trudge through life alone.
As a child, she’d believed angelic choirs sang in the clouds and walked along streets of gold. But the thought of Erik being anywhere other than in a satin-lined box under six feet of sod was hard to imagine, even though she’d tried.
Walter didn’t respond, and she was almost sorry he hadn’t.
“I suppose you and I are on the same page,” he finally admitted. “I’ve got a lot of friends who’ve passed on. Too many, actually. And I’d like to believe I’ll see them again, but the truth is I’m not so sure.”
A part of Claire had hoped for more from him, reassurance or some kind of confirmation. Yet she realized he’d probably had a few faith-busting trials of his own. Somehow, commiserating didn’t seem to be anything that would help either of them.
“I used to believe,” she told him. “Now I merely hope.”
“You’ll probably get a few brownie points for renewing a child’s faith.”
She chuffed. “Maybe so, but taking up a pen and claiming to be God could just as easily trigger a well-aimed lightning bolt.”
“Nah.